


Psmith Learns More

by surexit



Series: The Gradual Deflowering of Comrade Psmith [2]
Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:46:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/pseuds/surexit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh,” Mike said, a little disappointed. “This is about socialism.”</p><p>Psmith studied him with a keen eye. “Not entirely,” he said. “I will admit, not <em>entirely</em> about socialism.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psmith Learns More

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to soupytwist, imperfectcircle and somebraveapollo for audiencing. ♥

“It’s tremendously stuffy in here,” Psmith said, walking into Mike’s cupboard-like office.

“Oh, hang on, I’ll just make a long arm for that window,” Mike said, glancing up from the books he was keeping.

“Oh, no, no need, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said, locking the door behind him. Mike watched, mouth slightly agape, as he carefully removed his jacket and hung it from the hook on the back of Mike’s door. After looking admiringly at his waistcoat, which was a fetching dark green, that item received the same treatment, leaving him in braces and a snowy white shirt, of which he unfastened the cufflinks – dropping them on Mike’s desk – and rolled up the sleeves. He exposed forearms that Mike couldn’t help noticing, lean and shapely. He finished the discombobulating process by sitting down on Mike’s only couch, a shabby green affair and regarding Mike primly through his monocle.

“Um,” Mike said. “Hullo, Psmith.”

“Hullo, Jackson,” Psmith said. “Much less like the proverbial lobster in a pot now, thank you.”

“Yes, I expect so,” Mike said, achieving what he thought was a rather solid attempt at an unruffled tone. “You look positively breezy.”

“Indeed. You should join me, Comrade Jackson. Hang propriety, that stuffy relic of our forefathers! It does not jibe with our revolutionary spirit, Comrade, not at all.”

“Oh,” Mike said, a little disappointed. “This is about socialism.”

Psmith studied him with a keen eye. “Not entirely,” he said. “I will admit, not _entirely_ about socialism.”

“Oh?” Mike said. He closed the book currently in front of him, a terribly dull rendering of the proceeds from the estate’s sheep, and leaned his elbows on his desk, keenly eyeing Psmith in return.

Psmith smiled, and said, “This is about progression!” While Mike was absorbing that, Psmith went on. “As much as I have realised that I enjoy the sport of kissing, of bussing, of necking, as I believe our American colleagues might say, I have divined that there might be somewhat more to the art of love. How have I divined this, you ask me, as well you might, Comrade Jackson. How indeed? Well, it is my understanding that, occasionally, other body parts do make contact. Through this, in some arcane way that I confess to being somewhat less than clear on, babies are made.” He waved a carefree hand. “I suspect that knowledge of being unnecessary for us, however, as much fun as a litter of tiny Jacksons might prove to be.”

Mike had never considered the spectre of a litter of tiny Jacksons. It made him feel quite faint.

“And so, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith went on, correctly divining that Mike was currently incapacitated, “I thought we might consider other avenues for exploration. In the spirit of manly adventure, you understand. And I do like to be prepared.” He flicked an invisible speck of dust off his shirt-covered shoulder and smiled sunnily at Mike.

“I don’t think we should progress all that far in my office,” Mike managed, after a short interval. “That lock’s a bit suspect.”

Psmith nodded, looking earnest. “Words of wisdom, as always, from Mike Jackson, Man of the World. It is for this ability to sense danger that you are, as always, invaluable.”

“I’m not exactly sensing danger,” Mike said. “Only that I don’t think we should be caught too flagrantly in flagrante.”

“I believe you are correct,” Psmith said. “Shall I put my things back on?”

“No,” Mike said quickly. “No, no. I mean to say, we’d hear someone trying to come in. We could progress a little.” He got up a little hastily and went to join Psmith on the couch. 

Psmith drew back, mouth pursed in disapproval. “Comrade Jackson, this playing field is uneven,” he said.

“Oh. Yes,” Mike said, looking down at himself, and stood up to remove his coat and waistcoat. He was again rather hurried in his movements. There was a twitch of amusement on Psmith’s face that indicated that he might have noticed this fact, and he leaned in for a kiss with an air of confidence when Mike sat down again.

Psmith was a quick study, and over the last two days he had practised kissing with an intense concentration, so that now, when he drew back, Mike was already flushed. “Am I learning, in your estimation, Comrade Jackson?” Psmith asked, breathing just a tad disturbed. “I am interested in your professional opinion.”

“Oh, stow it,” Mike said, tone fonder than he intended it to be, and he undid the first four buttons of Psmith’s shirt. Psmith’s breathing grew somewhat more disturbed. Mike insinuated a hand inside, stroking across the skin he found therein. 

Psmith shuddered sharply. “Oh,” he said, a tiny crease between his brows. Mike brushed a finger over his nipple, and his monocle fell out.

Mike leaned in for another kiss, bumping his mouth against Psmith’s in a companionable manner while his hand stroked back and forth over the nipple. “Satisfactory?” he murmured, taking some delight in the rather slack appearance of Psmith’s jaw.

Psmith rallied. “I should say so,” he said, between long gasps of air. “Much better than reading the books.”

“You’ve read books?” Mike said, stroking fingers slowing a little at this revelation.

“Oh, _devoured_ them,” Psmith said. “Would you be so kind as to not stop, if it doesn’t inconvenience you overmuch? Thank you,” he added, as Mike picked up speed again. “I particularly liked the ones about princes and stableboys, it was all so fascinatingly noble. A sadly bygone age.” He sighed dramatically. There was bright colour high on his cheeks, and on his collarbones and patches of his chest as well.

Mike undid another few buttons to give himself more room to manoeuvre, and said, “I’ve not read much of them.”

“Your education being more of the practical sort, I assume,” Psmith said, breath hitching as Mike dared a slight pinch to the nipple.

“I suppose,” Mike said. “Look here, a lot of chaps enjoy kissing in this area, would you mind if I…?” He trailed off delicately. He’d never had to discuss this sort of thing before, the denizens of his clubs all being very aware of what they were getting themselves into. 

Psmith inhaled sharply, and said, face perfectly calm but voice slightly cracked, “Be my guest, Comrade Jackson.”

“Oh, good,” Mike said and bent his head to press a kiss to Psmith ‘s sternum.

“I feel as if I should be making notes,” Psmith said. “This is all so terribly educational, and Rupert Psmith without his copybook.” He sighed gustily, and one of his long hands touched the back of Mike’s head, gently threading his fingers through the dark strands of hair.

“I’m sure you’ll remember,” Mike said with a snort, between one kiss and the next. 

“Possibly, possibly,” Psmith acknowledged. “You may be right. Oh, that’s rather nice,” he said a second later, tone infused with somewhat more urgency as Mike licked his nipple.

“Mmmm,” Mike said, and attended more seriously to his task. It only took a minute at most before Psmith was shifting restlessly on the couch, the hand in Mike’s hair tugging spasmodically. “I assume this is in the books,” Mike took a moment to say.

“Endlessly,” Psmith said, panting. The evidence of his growing interest was quite ruining the line of his trousers. “I was becoming rather bored with the whole scenario. An error, I see – oh – now, and one that I am terribly pleased to have corrected.”

Mike was terribly pleased to be correcting it for him, and was about to say as much when there was a rattle at the door handle. “Jackson, I say, Jackson!” came Mr Smith’s voice from outside. 

Mike went so far as to mutter, “Damn it to hell,” as he pulled back. Psmith raised a disapproving eyebrow, but clearly couldn’t quite muster the wherewithal to issue a fond reprimand, breathing heavily, flushed, and watching Mike with glittering eyes.

“Jackson, are you in there?” Mr Smith’s voice came again. “I’ve had an idea, my dear boy, about llamas. Have you heard of them? They’re tremendous.”

“Yes, I’m here, Mr Smith!” Mike said. “Could you give me a moment?”

He looked helplessly at Psmith, who was lounging on the couch looking debauched and did not seem inclined to move. He raised his eyebrows as Mike met his gaze. “Go out to meet him,” he said in an undertone. “He likes to walk and talk, anyway.”

Mike nodded, and started to struggle into his waistcoat. “Sorry, Mr Smith,” he called. “I was just… napping. Sorry.”

“Oh no, Jackson, no need to worry.”

“I’ll come out to you, shall I? We could take a turn while we discuss the… llamas.”

“Capital idea, capital! I shall meet you at the side door.”

“Tremendous,” Mike said, trying to reorder his hair so that it did not look quite so much like Mr Smith’s beloved son had been grasping at it in the throes of passion. Psmith, still lounging, nodded approvingly.

“Quick action, Comrade Jackson, and the day will always be saved. Pass me the paper before you go? I feel a yen to peruse the society pages, see what the gay things are up to in town. Ah, the bright lights of London.”

Mike sighed, and passed him the newspaper. As he did so, Psmith caught his hand and pressed a kiss to the tips of his finger, winking at Mike with affection in his face.

Mike left, feeling as though he could take on Mr Smith, llamas, and the world.


End file.
